Have A Little Faith
by ChelsieSouloftheAbbey
Summary: Birthday fic for the lovely brenna-louise! Fluffy one-shot glimpse into the lives of married Chelsie, where we get to see Charlie as caretaker.


**A/N: A birthday fic for my lovely, sweet friend brenna-louise, whose only request was "fluffy period Chelsie."  
That I can do. My thanks to chelsie fan and meetmeinstlouie for reading through and offering editing services.  
There's an accompanying fanvid on my tumblr ( csota) that is meant to sort of be a prequel to this fic, but it's not necessary to view it to understand the story.**

 **Happy Birthday! :) xxx**

 **CSotA**

* * *

The fire is crackling lowly in the hearth, the faint glimmer of light playing across the darkened wall, battling the sliver of light from the sunrise that is creeping through the curtain. Charles hears a faint _pop_ from the wood, and while he dares not move at the moment, he knows that he will soon face a decision between two forms of comfort: warmth from the room, or warmth from the lovely woman who is slumbering deeply as she lies by his side.

He tips his head forward and kisses hers; it's the gentlest of touches, barely felt, and yet the whisper of his breath flutters a small wave of hair that is falling over her brow, and that alone makes his heart soar. The fluttering lock is a symbol of this _new_ Elsie, the one whose hair is bound more loosely (or, like now, not at all) at home, whose forehead creases disappear as she sleeps, the one who breathes more deeply when she is freed from corset and work dress …

… _and everything else,_ he thinks happily.

She shifts a bit, pushing her body up against him, and that's when he feels it. He's surprised he hadn't noticed it before, but then again, it was only her head resting on a pillow with his arm secured underneath, and not her body flush against him as it so often is.

And as she presses against him now in her sleep, he can sense that her body is warm, indeed _._ Not the comfortable, flushed warmth that he now associates with gasping breaths and whispered words of love accompanied by sacred, intimate touches, but _exceptionally_ warm. Decidedly _un_ comfortable. He moves his hand from where it rests on the coverlet and dips it underneath, laying the back of it against her bare stomach ... the same way his Mama would do when he was just a lad.

" … _The best way to see if you've a fever, Charlie …"_

The ghost of the memory is gone in an instant as the touch of his wife's skin on his hand confirms his fear: she _is_ feverish, and now that he's awake and aware he looks over her face, sees her cheeks flushed with a pink that creeps over her brow and down her usually pale neck. He slides his other arm from underneath her pillow - moving slowly, gently, so as not to wake her just yet - and rises from the bed. Donning dressing gown and slippers, he adds a log to the fire and heads on downstairs toward the telephone.

His wife is decidedly _not_ going to work today; furthermore, as her husband and chief caretaker, neither is _he._

 **oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Elsie opens her eyes to find her husband gone from their bed. She's shivering and not sure why, because the first thing she hears upon waking is the crackle of a roaring fire in the fireplace, and she's well tucked underneath the covers, too.

She rolls onto her side, swings her legs over the edge of the mattress, and sits up, immediately regretting the quick movements as the room seemingly swims before her. She reaches up and places her hand over her eyes, willing her head to stop spinning as she utters a soft, "Ohh …"

Charles's footsteps sound outside their door and he bustles in with a tray, placing it on the nightstand as he rushes to her side.

"You need to lie back down, love," he says quietly. "Let's tuck you back in, and -"

"Charlie," she interrupts him, "I'm sure I just sat up too quickly."

"That doesn't explain the fever," he insists.

"Fever?" She's confused for a moment, and opens her eyes fully. She is suddenly cognizant of the _brightness_ of the sun creeping into the room, and her eyes dart to the clock before looking at Charles in horror.

"It's just gone seven," she whispers.

"And I've called the Abbey and informed them that we'll be absent today."

"You've what?"

"Elsie, you're clearly ill this morning," he tells her, reaching for her nightgown. "Miss Baxter is more than capable of taking your place for the time being."

"But, Charlie -"

Charles, however, doesn't let her finish. "Now, despite my overwhelming approval of seeing you in your present state, I think you'll feel better if you slip this back on."

Elsie blushes as it dawns on her that she's been sitting bare-breasted at the edge of their bed, with the covers half-pulled around her stomach.

"No wonder I'm freezing," she mutters. She moves to stand up and the room swims again, and Charles catches her as she stumbles.

"Slowly, love," he says, his voice rumbling quietly in her ear. "Here we are …"

He helps her to stand and then keeps his hand firmly around her waist to hold her steady as they work together to slip the nightgown over her head.

"I'm sure I'll be fine after some tea," Elsie says, but Charles just chuckles softly, his eyebrows raised at her.

"I don't think so. You're not leaving this room, Elsie, unless it's to nip into the bathroom and then back again."

"Oh, really?" She raises her chin defiantly. "And what about you? There's no reason for us _both_ to miss work, Charles. You have that meeting with Mr. Barrow today about the gala next month."

"It's already been rescheduled," he tells her, and he helps her lift her legs back into the bed and then adjusts the pillows behind her back, creating a makeshift seat for her to lean against as she eats. "And other than that, if you recall, I have no real duties at the house."

There's a bit of regret in his voice, and she knows better than to press him. He places the tray over her lap, but her stomach flips when she spies the contents of the plate.

"I don't think I should eat yet," she murmurs, shivering once again.

"Perhaps just the tea, then," Charles replies, and he swiftly removes the tray from the bed and pours her a steaming cup. "No milk," he explains. "Just in case."

Elsie watches him, and a smile comes to her lips. "Look at you, playing the nursemaid," she teases softly. "But I warn you, Charlie: I'm not a very good patient. You'll be done with me by noontime, make no mistake."

But Charles just reaches down and cups her soft face in his hand, brushing a thumb over her cheek.

"Have a little faith in me, Mrs. Carson." His voice is soft and loving, and she relaxes into his touch. "I plan to spend the entire day waiting on you hand and foot, ensuring that you drink enough and that you rest, and hoping that we can rid you of that fever by nightfall."

"Really, Charles, you don't need -" But her reply is cut short by the firm placement of his thumb over her lips, silencing her.

" _Really,"_ he mimics kindly, smirking as he rolls his _r_ in perfect imitation of her. _"_ I _do_ need."

The words are full of a love that she can see when she looks up at him … love with just a tinge of fear and regret lingering in the background.

"Charlie, I'm sure it's just a light flu," she says softly, understanding flooding her mind and heart. "Miss Sybbie had something similar only last week. It's nothing serious ... nothing of _that_ sort."

"I know. But I couldn't take care of you before. I couldn't even help you when you had a cold, not without it seeming too forward or improper. Not in the way you always managed to take care of me. _Now,_ however, it's my right and my pleasure to do so. And take care of you I shall."

And, with that, he places the teacup in her hands, tucks the sheets and blankets more tightly around her legs, and reaches for her shawl on the chair.

"I'm going to quickly wash up, shave, and dress," he informs her, wrapping the shawl around her shoulders. "I won't be but a few minutes. _Your_ job is to drink this, eat a little something, and rest. Can I get you anything else?"

"I'll be fine for the time being," she tells him gratefully. "Once I've got this tea down, I'll need the bathroom myself, but I'm all right now."

Charles bends down and kisses her forehead. "Then I'll be back in a bit."

"Thank you."

He has removed his clothing from the wardrobe and is halfway out the door when a thought suddenly dawns on Elsie; upon hearing her gasp, he turns.

"What is it?"

"Charlie .. whatever I have, I certainly don't want _you_ getting ill," she says, eyes wide. "Perhaps you should stay downstairs - or, even better, head to the Abbey anyhow?"

He smiles at her, realizing that in her somewhat diminished capacity, the obvious hasn't yet occurred to her.

"Elsie, love," he says calmly, a twinkle in his eye, "anything that you might have that I might catch, I most _certainly_ would have caught last night." He winks at her and disappears through the door.

 _He's right, of course._ She can't help but smile as she sips her tea, the sound of the water running in the bathroom and of her husband's off-key humming soothing her … they're the simple, familiar sounds of a home shared, something that is theirs and _only_ theirs after so many years of waiting and wanting.

When the tea is gone, Elsie places the empty cup on the tray beside her, ever the tidy housekeeper. Peering at the plate, she decides the sight of the toast is rather displeasing, and the thought of digging into the soft-boiled egg puts her completely off the idea of eating. She's shivering slightly, not warmed at all by the tea, and she slides down the pillows and pulls the blankets more closely around her neck. She really needs to use the toilet before allowing herself to fall asleep again, and so she's grateful when she hears Charles open the door to the bathroom and exit.

But, once more, Elsie tries to sit up too quickly, and the room spins yet again.

"Steady on," she hears her husband chide, and she relaxes into his grip as he takes her arm and helps her up, walking her to the bathroom door.

"I'm not a complete invalid, Charles," she says. "I _can_ manage to use the toilet by myself." Her words fluster him a bit, and she thinks it would be adorable if she weren't feeling so awful at the moment.

"I know you can," he replies, slightly embarrassed. "But I'll be right here by the door in case you feel faint."

"Charles Carson, I will _not_ use the bathroom with you standing at the door and listening," she tells him firmly.

"And if you fall?" he counters, eyebrows raised. "You've stumbled twice already, Elsie."

She points across the hallway, toward the bedroom.

"You may stand _over there._ I'll leave the door ajar so that you can hear me scream if I fall," she says, a challenge in her voice as she rolls her eyes. "Or perhaps you could wait in the bedroom - or, better yet, even downstairs."

And with that, she turns and closes the door behind herself, albeit not tightly. She didn't mean to sound harsh, but she thinks that if he plans to quite literally be by her side all day, she'll surely be at her wits' end by nightfall.

Elsie manages to use the toilet and then wash up a bit and clean her teeth without issue, moving very slowly through each task so as not to give Charles any reason to tell her _I told you so._ But when she reaches for the hairbrush, her arms simply don't want to go through the effort of using it; she moves slowly toward the door and opens it, holding the brush out to her husband, who is standing proudly outside the bedroom door as if he were butler in his own home, too.

He quirks an eyebrow at her and crosses the hallway to be by her side, but he says nothing.

"Would you brush it for me? Please?" she asks. "And then I promise to sleep. I _am_ exhausted, Charlie."

"Come on, then," he says quietly, kissing her head. As his arm slips around her hip and he escorts her back to the bed, Elsie leans her weight against him and sighs as she focuses on not letting the brush drop from her hand.

"In sickness and in health," she murmurs. "I'd say you're fulfilling your duties, love."

She's watching where she steps so as not to stumble again, but when she looks up at last, she gasps as her eyes fall upon the bed.

"Charlie? You've … You've changed the linens?"

"I have," he says rather proudly. "The corners are decidedly _not_ tight, I'll admit, as I was in a rush. But I think you'll rest better in a freshly-made bed."

She nods slowly, reevaluating the man who stands by her side, holding her up. It's usually the other way around, _her_ holding _him_ up, and the role reversal isn't lost on her one bit.

"I'm sure I shall," she says quietly, and she silently vows to be a much more grateful patient as the day wears on.

Elsie climbs back onto the bed; Charles manages to sit behind her, and he loosens her long locks with gentle fingers, caressing her soft tresses and marveling at the beauty of the silver, which is liberally threaded through the auburn and more noticeable when her hair is down. He reaches around her and takes the brush from her hand; drawing it through the hair slowly, starting from the bottom and working his way up, he recalls having watched her do it the same way in Scarborough and countless times since then. Now that he's performing the simple task himself, however, intimate in its own right, he thinks he might request to brush her hair more often.

Charles smiles when Elsie virtually melts against him, and when he is finished, he gathers her hair and ties a ribbon around it, unable to plait it but at least able to ensure it won't be a tangled mess later on.

"Sleep," he reminds her. "I'll clear the tray away and then be back to join you."

"All right." She snuggles down onto the pillow and allows her husband to tuck her in once again, still shivering and knowing her best chance to rid herself of the flu is to sweat out the fever.

"Another blanket, Charlie," she instructs. "Please; the heavy one from the top shelf of the wardrobe, perhaps? And I should take a Beechams powder."*

"Did you eat?" His voice is clear from across the room, half-buried in the wardrobe searching for the blanket in question.

"No," she admits.

He turns to face her, blanket in hand. "Then I'm afraid you'll need to sit up, Elsie, and have at least a slice of toast, and _then_ I'll fetch the powder." He is trying very hard not to make her sound like a child in need of coddling, but the thought of her making herself _more_ ill by taking medication on an empty stomach isn't one that rests well with him at all.

"Fine." She sits up again and waits, pouting. It takes her ten minutes to eat a dry slice of toast, but she manages it. She swallows the Beechams dutifully and tucks back in.

"Sleep," Charles whispers. "I'll be back up before you know it."

Her eyes have already fluttered shut, and she's asleep before his feet hit the kitchen floor.

 **oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Charles is turning a page of his book when Elsie wakes again. It's nearly lunchtime, and she feels terribly ill, cold still and her head aching and foggy. But her stomach seems to be calmer, and she's feeling a bit hungry - for which she is extremely grateful. There is a great deal she will allow regarding her husband's caring for her when she's ill, but if she can avoid emptying her stomach in front of him, then all the better.

"Good morning, sleepyhead."

His crooked smile makes _her_ smile.

"What time is it?"

"Nearly eleven," he tells her. "How's your stomach?"

"Better," she says, sitting up - slowly, this time, because she remembers she's not in a hurry. No bells today, no rushing maids, no demanding family.

"I've made some soup," Charles says. "It's nothing like Mrs. Patmore's, but it seemed all right when I tried it."

Elsie just smiles at him and nods. "I'd love that, if you don't mind bringing some up."

"Of course I don't mind," he says softly. He places his book on the nightstand between his chair and the bed and heads downstairs to fetch the soup as Elsie shifts in the bed, trying to wrap the shawl around herself again.

By the time her husband returns, Elsie is starving - _a good sign,_ she thinks.

Charles sets the tray over her lap and places his hand on her neck, leaning over to kiss her brow.

"You're still warm," he murmurs, "but perhaps not quite as bad."

"This looks wonderful, Charlie," she praises him, a bright smile on her face. "Truly."

"Well, it's not the best," he reminds her. "I think it needs some salt, and it's a bit thin."

But Elsie spoons some of the broth into her mouth and hums delightedly. "It's delicious; trust me."

Charles watches her eat, grateful that she's well enough to do so.

"I thought I might read to you a bit - after you've eaten, that is."

Elsie smiles up at him. "I'd love that. You certainly _are_ spoiling me, love. I don't deserve it."

"You do," he argues. "Besides, you need someone to watch over you."

"I've cared for myself when ill for nearly my whole life," she reminds him. "Although, I will admit that this is a bit nicer."

"A bit?"

She's afraid she's offended him and says so.

"No, Mrs. Carson," he tells her, his eyes twinkling. "I'm not _offended."_

Her light laugh is music to his ears.

 **oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

It's Elsie's book of Shakespeare's sonnets that Charles ends up reading. She has favorites marked amongst the entirety of them; he starts with those, noticing when he's halfway through the marked pages that there's a pattern of sorts, like a map through the mind of his beloved wife.

"How long ago did you mark these?" he asks, curious.

Her smile is warm, but there's guilt there, too.

"Do you remember Haxby?" she whispers. "The one you just read was right around that time. Most are from after that, but a couple are from before."

The corner of his mouth quirks up. "Really?"

She nods. "Mm. You seem surprised, Charles."

"I am. Most definitely. I … I didn't realize, I don't think. Not … not then."

Elsie marvels at how it can be that they've not discussed this before. But, then again, she reminds herself that she and her husband are creatures of habit; at the end of the day, they've always been two people who've lived fiercely independent lives, with careers in which one rarely discussed feelings openly and in which intimate touching was all but forbidden.

"No," she whispers. "And why would you have?"

He nods and continues reading.

 **oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

It's late in the afternoon when Elsie wakes again, and she's startled to feel her husband's body behind hers. He's snoring softly, and she realizes that she's drenched, which means her fever has broken. She's uncomfortable, but with Charles's arm slung around her waist, she's loath to move just yet.

It's not what she expected, this marriage. She expected something convenient, with small glimpses of love and - she had hoped - a little bit of the passion that so ignited their arguments over the years. She expected to do the cooking and the cleaning, even expected his disapproval at her skill set in the kitchen, but the rest of it was almost overwhelming at first.

But theirs is a marriage of a deep, passionate, _fulfilling_ love _._ It was a shock to her that first night, when they'd laid their reservations and fears by the wayside to discover they were even better attuned to one another _intimately_ than they had always been with words and household management. Over the past months, they've come to cherish their time at home, carving out small bits of each day to simply sit together, always touching in some way - her hand on his knee, his arm slung over her shoulders; a kiss to the back of her neck in the kitchen, a brush of her fingers through his hair when he's dozing on the settee. Those and a million other things are the details of their lives that make her not want to wake him now. She's come to a point where she can hardly bear to be without his presence, and she knows that when she rises she'll be alone for a bit as he prepares their meal. It's unlike her; deep down, she thinks it's a weakness, but it's one she has no desire to correct. She can smell their dinner cooking in the oven, and it makes her smile to think he's prepared _three_ meals for her today.

 _Such a long way from when I pretended to have injured my hand ..._

He stirs, running his hand over her abdomen.

"You're soaking wet," he notes, and his voice is gravelly with sleep. She smiles as he unintentionally tickles her while slipping his hand underneath the nightgown, and the smile broadens when he sighs with evident relief.

"But better," she confirms. "No fever; I can tell. I desperately need a bath ... and then food, I think."

"All of which we'll take care of in twenty seconds," he informs her.

"Really?" she chuckles, reading his thoughts. "And what, pray tell, will happen first that will take twenty seconds?"

He props himself up on his elbow and leans over her, smiling.

"Well, it's about twelve now," he whispers, and he leans forward to place a gentle, lingering, twelve-seconds-long kiss on her lips.

"There," he whispers, and she's breathless, a sensation which has nothing to do with having been ill and everything to do with being the wife of the amazing man whose leg is currently wrapped around one of her own.

"A most excellent use of our time, Mr. Carson," she observes. "I hope for more of _that_ later on."

"Once you've got your strength back, perhaps," he tells her, and he taps his nose to the tip of hers. "Now, a long bath - during which I will wash your hair - and some time by the fire reading as we eat dinner so that you can warm up and dry your hair. How does that sound?"

She reaches up and cups his cheek, brushing her thumb over his face, and her eyes fall on the gold band that graces her finger.

"It sounds perfect, Charles. You've taken such good care of me today. I admit, I thought you'd be bored and frustrated, watching me sleep and listening to me argue all day."

"You said you'd be a horrible patient," he reminds her, "which was far from true."

"Well," she says, her fingertips brushing the hair on his temple. "You were a better nursemaid than I had anticipated."

He thinks back to all the times when it was _her_ caring for him - those after the Haxby decision, and a couple from before.

"Perhaps it helps to be madly in love with the patient," he whispers.

"Perhaps, Mr. Carson," she says softly. "And perhaps it helps to have a little faith that it will all be well in the end. Now … about that bath …"

Charles peels the blankets back and helps her to the tub, running the hot water and then settling her in before heading down to check on their dinner.

"I'll be back in a moment to do your hair," he tells her, and he turns toward the door.

"I love you, Charlie," she says softly from the tub, and he turns to smile.

"I love you, too," he tells her.

He's downstairs when she turns the faucet off, and she can hear the faint sound of his humming, the tune quite familiar to her now, and she smiles, knowing that she did steal his heart away … and that she's all the better for it.

* * *

*Beechams powder: aspirin and caffeine. I know from enough migraines that there is a short, blessed window when you can consume caffeine and fall asleep before it kicks in and keeps you up.

 **I hope you enjoyed this! Please head on over to tumblr if you're able and wish brenna-louise the Happiest of Birthdays! xxx**


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